the muck

"There's something dead in there," she said, pointing to the manufactured stream.

"I'm not going to take a picture of a floating dead thing. Unless you want dead things in your wedding album," the photographer said and snapped a picture of the bride pointing to the muck. "We should probably go. Don't you need to get married?"

The bride laughed, peered in again, and continued on her way to the ceremony. She lifted her skirt to save it from the pool water, turned to the photographer and grinned. She turned back again and took another step. "I'm getting married," she said.

"It's about time," said the photographer and briefly moved her camera away from her eye to smile back at the bride.

Is this it?

As she placed the final flower in her hair she considered how she got to this moment. Her list was nearly complete. Graduate from high school—check. Go to college—check. Graduate from college with a boyfriend—check. Get married— Have a baby— In that order. Is this really what life is all about? What would she be missing?

She turned back to the mirror. Flower in one hand, hairpin in the other. Is? Perfectly curled tendril. This? Flower placed. It? Pin secured.

She took another look. Perfect hair with perfect flowers. Perfect white dress buttoned up the back. Professional makeup and dainty silver sandals. She heard the voices, felt the expectations. Is this it?

Her hand reached for the doorknob, her heels clicked down the hall. She turned once more and glanced behind her. Is this it?